The Lady and the Vamp
by BilliMonroe
Summary: Set in 1950s Mystic Falls, Damon was very powerful and often threw his money around as if it were his latest conquest's lingerie. Bonnie was a classy dame. Not like the scandalous broads that he was used to dealing with. No, she was magic personified.


**A/N:** Hey all, this is just a fun little ditty that I wrote a while back after going to a ballroom affair with a couple of my friends who were in a music troupe. While sitting with them, my attention kept flitting back toward one of the band memebers. Given that I was practicing for my senior recital, I never got a chance to see the rest of the show, but this is the story that came out of that experience. Bamon-style, of course. So enjoy! **READ AND REVIEW**

THE LADY AND THE VAMP

Lights twinkled and glasses clicked together as the jazz band played in front of a large lavish ballroom adorned with black and gold tables. A bar stocked full with drinks stood off to one side of the room atop checkered floors, and a high ceiling from which an enormous chandelier hanged canopied the festivities. The place was spilling with jezebels in pin curls fiercely eyeing their prey, ladies of the church who claimed only to be supporting tonight's charity, and men who hoped to bed either of them. I sat listening to the music from my seat at a table reserved only for the talented semi-professional singing troupe called the Mystic Falls Singers. It wasn't enough that I stuck out like a sore thumb in a knee length black cocktail dress while the singers wore bright gold dresses and tuxedoes with gold dress shirts, but I also had to sit at the table by myself and stick out even more when they got up to sing.

Between sets, the troupe sat back at the table, and I had the full pleasure of watching Elena Gilbert, the spirited young jazz soprano, flirt shamelessly with one of the bass singers. Every once in a while, Matt Donovan, another one of the male singers would playfully drag her attention back to him, only to have her just as playfully accuse him of being a two timer. He finally gave up their little charade and leaned into me, batting his eyes and pretending to serenade me. Soon, we all turned our attention to Caroline Forbes and laughed as she stared dreamily at the Matt. That is, until the gorgeous blond caught on and threatened us. Not that I particularly thought that the threats hurled at me were all that necessary, but at least they kept the attention off of my own starry eyed gaze.

As if by clockwork, the troupe got up and began to sing a cover of the new ditty "I Can't Believe That You're in Love With Me" with Elena and Stefan ,the blond bass with whom she had been flirting, singing lead. _How ironic_, I thought. Then, my thoughts travelled a little further behind the Singers toward the bass player of the jazz band. The one with whom I once dreamed of going steady and maybe more.

His fingers moved over the strings in a way that gave me thoughts that would only have been appropriate in a speak easy. Every now and then, he would close his eyes. This is how one could tell that he was really into the music; if he closed his eyes. He had the most sublime look on his face, and if one looked really closely, she could start to see a smile forming on his slightly pouty lips. It was almost as if he were doing more than just blending in. He was, dare I say, standing out. And he was lovely. But lovely as he was, seeing him so happy in complete solitude made me realize just how different that we were. And how far away those dreams of him and me together lay. After all, our only common bond was a love of music, and even that similarity brought out our opposites. Jeremy Gilbert was quiet with so many reservations that he would rather have sat for hours just practicing in a room by himself. No doubt preferring a boudoir with dim lighting to the bright lights of the stage. I on the other hand, relished in the bright lights and deafening band; taking my place in front of the microphone as the headliner. Center stage! Then again, I cannot truly say that we would not work out, because he had never even made an attempt at courting me.

Frustrated with myself for even thinking these thoughts, I walked over to the bar, causing some of the church women to snort at me in disgust at my choice of beverage. I guess that no one had hipped them to the flapper movement more than twenty years ago. Well, they could all go sit on it!

She was a classy dame. Not like the scandalous broads that he was used to dealing with, who would not have thought once about declining an invitation back to his apartment and into his bed. He had been watching her ever since she entered the ballroom and took her place at the performers' reserved table in the front. He could tell nothing and everything about her just from the way that she interacted with her friends. For instance, he could tell that she was well liked by everyone with whom she came in contact and was included into almost any group with open arms. Yet, she still did not fit in completely. It was not that she was uncomfortable in her own skin, it was more that she wore many different skins and was starting to find it hard to hide her own. He could also tell that by the jealous glares that she was shooting the flirtatious brunette at her table that she was used to bathing in the romance; probably juggling two or more suitors at a time. Only, just like her choice to keep both men at bay, she now chose this romantic drought as a sign of loyalty. To some man, he guessed, and her love sick gaze at the band's bassist confirmed his speculations.

Her stride to the bar was a pleasing sight, as her cocktail dress' clingy fabric and low neckline hugged her curves in a way that would have made the holy Madonna cry tears of blood. And really, just the mere thought of her blood crawling up those delicate veins made his mouth water. Tired of the yapping blond on his arm, he rudely wrenched himself from her surprisingly strong grasp and joined the curly haired brunette at the bar.

Now let us get some things straight about this man right now. Damon Salvatore was very powerful and often threw his money around as if it were his latest conquest's underwear. And to be frank, he liked his women drunk and sans moral fiber. Oh, it was not because he could not get a woman into his bed without the use of liquid courage and paternal complexes. Quite the contrary in fact. At six feet, he flaunted his looks even more than his money. His crystal blue gaze made even the women of the church blush and repent their sinful thoughts, and his tousled black hair only added to his mystique and devil-may-care attitude instead of making him look ragged. He epitomized the rude and selfish playboy who made a living showcasing women on the stages of dark burlesque joints, and he could have had any woman that he wanted, his performers included. However, alcohol seemed to make the crude whores that stalked the bars nearly animalistic. It also seemed to knock them out and erase the previous night's activities from their minds; a perk that was always useful when he wanted to make an early morning get-away. Which was every time of course. He could usually get them with no more than a "Hey toots" and a lick of his lips, but she, he knew, would be a tough nut to crack. Pun very intended.

"What's a pretty little thing like you doing in a place like this?" Ugh, he was no good at small talk. But then again, he had never had to resort to it before.

"No use in trying to charm me mister. Lines do not work on me," Bonnie said, waiting for the bartender to fix her another gin cocktail.

"Is that so?" Damon asked. "Then what does?" she took a sip of her drink and turned back to the show, singing "Orange Colored Sky" under her breath. "You have a lovely voice Ms…" he waited for her to give him her name, and continued when she didn't, "A lady of your talents should not be wasting them singing under your breath for lowlifes and wise guys by the bar. You should have your name lit up in lights, throwing fits in dressing rooms."

"It would behoove you Mr. Opportunistic, to keep your mind away from both my talents and my dressing room." Her words dripped with haughty defiance and a bit of boredom, but her lips curled up at the top in a wicked half-smile as if being ill-spirited amused her. He was intrigued already.

"Well then let me get right to the point: you've got heat. You are ten times better than anything that has ever walked that stage," he said pointing to the front of the room, "and can go on to star in pictures that would outshine even the Dorothys and Josephines. Any man in his right mind can see that." Her eyes immediately flickered to the band member that she wanted so much. "The question is," he said leaning into her and whispering in her ear, "Why do you insist upon waiting for the only one who can't?" She looked back at him with the same intensity that he held before smiling that sly smirk at him and countering, "Because even a cold shower, beats a drenched lap." With a wink of her sooty-black eyelashes, her drink flew onto the seat of his trousers. "Have a nice night Mr. Opportunistic."


End file.
